Hasten, Brother, To The Harvest,
See The Fields Already White;
Do Not Tarry, Grasp The Sickle,
While The Morning Sun Is Bright.

Hasten, Brother, To The Harvest,
Souls Of Men Are Dying Fast;
Soon The Harvest Will Be Ended,
Then Shall Come The Winter’s Blast.

Hasten, Brother, To The Harvest,
Gather From The Hill And Plain;
Soon We’ll Come With Great Rejoicing,
Bringing In The Golden Grain.

Hasten, Brother, To The Harvest,
Will You Be Content With Leaves?
Will You Stand There Empty-Handed,
While The Reapers Come With Sheaves?

Hasten, Brother, To The Harvest,
Souls Go Down With Every Breath,
Sink In Darkness, There To Suffer
Through The Awful Night Of Death.

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